The Greater Game
by BattleOfDaydreams
Summary: First Fic, yay! This picks up at the beginning of A Scandal in Belgravia, but this time Sherlock chooses to shoot the bomb. Each paragraph switches focus between John and Sherlock. Title is undecided, may change in the future.
1. Chapter 1

"When there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire." - Stars

Sherlock stood with his gun aimed at the bomb he had recklessly slung across the tile floor. "Now, now, we wouldn't want to do that would we?" teased Moriarty, "Someone could get hurt." Sherlock looked down at John, who nodded with a severe look on his face. Calculations raced through his mind: the explosion radius, john around the corner, distance to Moriarty, and distance to him. Suddenly, a ringtone echoed through the chlorinated room. Moriarty shrugged apologetically, "That's me. Hello? yes of…" The phone conversation went on, Sherlock glancing back at John, kept his gun aimed at the bomb. Moriarty hung up, "Seems today isn't the day to die, sorry boys!" He snapped his fingers and the red lights dancing on Sherlock's torso blinked off. "But you remember Sherlock, I am coming for you if you don't stay out of this." Sherlock made up his mind. "No, you won't" he said coldly, and he pulled the trigger. BANG. Sherlock threw himself towards john, to get away from the blast, to protect his friend. In an instant, the flames blossomed outward, consuming Moriarty and racing towards Sherlock and John. Then the world went black.

Sirens. Crying. Blood. John's eyes screamed as he tried tp open them, and his ears were deafenned by the echoes of the explosion. There were paramedics working all over his body, and he realized he was strapped into a stretcher. He tried to move, to see Sherlock anywhere, but the pain held him down. He tried to speak, but his voice would only come out as a croak. One paramedic noticed he was awake and injected him with a white fluid. "You are very lucky you know, your friend may have saved you life." He said as John began to drift off. He fought desperately to stay awake and hear news of his friend. "You know, he… well… I'm sorry to say…" and then the world went dark.

Sherlock stood in 221B as if nothing had happened, but his mind was fuzzy and he couldn't remember…. What was going on? John walked in and ripped off his coat. Its hot as blazes out there." He said as he tugged at his collar, sweat begining to drip from his face. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, unsure of anything. Then a small flake licked out over John's heart, and a smoldering hole appeared in the man's torse. "No!" screamed Sherlock, as the gaping hole burned through John's chest. The man fell to his knees in agony and Sherlock tried to put out the flames with his hands, but it only caused his friend to crumble to ashes beneath him. "John" He screamed, the fire catching his onto his hands and the flat. The floors and the walls were consumed, and burnt away to reveal only blinding white. Sherlock watched as the rest of his friend dissolved and blew away in an invisible wind then could only stay silent and writhe in pain as the flames consumed him in this blinding whiteness.

John abruptly felt the world return in the form of blinding pain. His body arched up as strangled cries caught in his throat. Through his bleary eyes he saw a nurse appear and pump more fluid into his IV. He tried to raise his arm. Stop, he thought, I need to know, Sherlock. As the cool caress of morphine began to pull him away, he whispered to the nurse, "Sherlock". All he could see before the medication took him away was a look of pure pity flash across her face.

Sherlock screamed as his eyes popped open. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced, it tore through his body like a thousand lightning storms. The nurses rushed around him to adjust the medication and he calmed down, breathing hard. After a few minutes, the pain was more bearable. "Can you hear me?" asked a doctor, waving a flashlight across Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock made tried to speak, but his throat felt raw and all that came out was a low whimper. "You should recover, but it will be hard, and we can't know the full damage until you have healed further. Your friend John is doing much better as well," and the doctor smiled. Sherlock swallowed and managed to croak "who?" "Excuse me?" replied the doctor, furrowing his brow. Sherlock swallowed again, and whispered "who?"


	2. Chapter 2

John gritted his teeth as he swung his legs out of the bed. The tug of his burnt skin was just bearable with medication, and he was told the healing process would only be a few more weeks. Still, no one could tell him about Sherlock, doctor-patient confidentiality they said, faily only. He moaned again as he walked unsteadily towards the door, pulling his IV with him. If they would not tell him about Sherlock, then he would find Sherlock. Each searing step he took set his body on fire, it was worth it though. He stopped by the phone and called the information desk. "Yes, I'd like Sherlock Holmes' room number please, this is his cousin." "Of course, lets see. He's in burn unit, so level 5 and room number… 524." "Great, Thank you." John hung up the phone and began his painful trek down the hall, thankful he was close already. His room was 516, just around the corner. As John walked, he felt every broken bone, torn muscle, and burnt part, but he also could still feel Sherlock, jumping over him, shielding him. He arrived at 524 and knocked quietly before peeking in through the door.

Sherlock was able to stay awake now, and he was completely off life support. He could speak again, even eat and drink, but he still couldn't remember. There was a quiet knock and a man with sandy blond hair looked in through a crack in the door. The man looked horror struck as he pushed his way further into the room, dragging an IV behind him. He had burns on one side, although his face was only bruised, and it appeared a few broken bones. "Sherlock," he said, choking back tears. Sherlock looked at the man in confusion. Sherlock. That's what they said his name was. But who was this man? The doctor had mentioned someone called John once, could this be him? Tears began to rise in Sherlock's eyes and he said "I… I can't remember."

John stood there in his thin hospital robe and various casts, looking down onto his best friend. Sherlock's arms were patterned with glaring red cars that rose up his shoulders and curled onto the side of his head, staining his right cheek a dark read. His dark curls had been shaved off, his normally observant eyes looked dull, and fading bruises painted his entire body. And he couldn't remember. "It's me… Sherlock please… It's John…. " His tears began to pour over his cheeks, and he couldn't stop shaking. His best friend just laid there staring at him, then whispered again, "I don't remember…" John walked closer, wincing as he realized he should've had another dose of pain medication by now. Tears blurred his eyes as looked at what his friend had sacrificed for him. Then John was overwhelmed, by emotion, by pain, by everything. He let himself collapse beside Sherlock's bed, where he drifted in and out of consciousness, his body still shaking with sobs. Sherlock hitting the call nurse button. Doctors rushing in. Gentle arms carrying him away. Sherlock watching him go, saying the name to himself, "John."

Sherlock looked up as the nurse entered with a middle-aged man behind her. He wore a fine suit and had an air of power, but his face was so tired and strained. "Sherlock," said the nurse softly, "This is Mycroft Holmes, he's your brother." She turned to the man, "I'll leave you two now." He watched her leave, then turned back to Sherlock with a defeated expression on his face. "I was here almost every day at the beginning, but your recovery was so long. I apologize that it has taken me this long to find you awake." Sherlock looked up at the man and said, "I can't remember, anything, anyone, I'm very sorry. But, thank you for being here, maybe you can give me some answers?" "I will do my best" the gentleman replied. "What happened?" asked Sherlock quietly, desperation creeping into his voice. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise, "They didn't tell you? The short version, you sacrificed yourself by setting off an explosive to kill the worlds most dangerous criminal. You then threw yourself over John, and took the worst of the blow." Sherlock's head snapped up, "John. Who is that?" "Again, I'm afraid the real answer would be a very long one, and one that maybe only you truly know. But, he was your flat mate, ah… coworker, and best friend." "He came in here the other day, he was crying, and… I… I just couldn't remember. Will you go visit him? Please? And find out how he is?" Sherlock said in a low, melancholy tone. "Of course, before I go, you should know that you might have a few more visitors. I believe detective inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson both plan on coming in a few weeks, if you will allow it." "Um… I… yes." Sighed Sherlock, nervous about disappointing more old friends. Mycroft smiled at him, but his eyes were so sad, and he said "wonderful. Until next time then, brother."


	3. Chapter 3

John exhaled sharply as we brought the weights up and then down. Up and then down. He thought the rehab after his bullet wound was hard. That was nothing. His bones were healed now, and so were many of his burns. Only a few left more permanent scars, and the doctors had repaired most of that damage. His mind was more or less in tact, he had nightmares and flashbacks, but he had his memory. Mycroft had popped in a week or so ago, Sherlock couldn't remember him either. Johns face tightened as he remembered how cool Mycroft remained, until he turned away to leave, when john saw his shoulders begin to shake ever so slightly, and his hand came up to his eyes. He grunted as sweat began rolling down his back. He heard a quick knock, then Lestrade entered nervously, looking uncomfortable and guilty. "Greg, it's good to see you again." John said with a tight smile. "Yeah, you too John, How are you? Really?" He replied. "Well I'm a bit burnt but alive." John said, setting down his weights. Lestrade mirrored him with a nervous smile, "and Sherlock, how is he? I heard about the memory loss." John stiffened and turned away. Lestrade immediately said, "Oh, John I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" "No, you're fine. Sherlock will be back on his feet soon." "Great, I think I'll go visit him for a bit then, it was good seeing you, John" "And it was good seeing you, Lestrade."

Sherlock stared out the window while he played the violin Mycroft had brought him. It seemed his musical talents had not left his like everything else. Some memories had returned, but not really specific ones. He remembered who he was, some of his childhood, but mostly things about his mind, his personality. And he didn't enjoy all of them. He remembered how cold and insensitive he was, but was it really his fault? Was he really feeling then? He didn't know, but he knew he was feeling now, so many emotions, but he found he still had his walls to keep them in, so nobody would know. The doctors said brain damage could do so many things, it could change him entirely, and it seems it had. Mycroft had been in multiple times lately, and Sherlock was slowly learning the story of his life. He was amazed by the stories about himself, he felt so different; he did not feel like Sherlock Holmes. Just then, a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He set the violin down and turned to see the man he assumed must be Lestrade. "Greg Lestrade, I presume," he said. The man blinked in surprise, "Yeah, How are you? I mean, I didn't think you recognize me." He said awkwardly. "Mycroft has been telling me about, well, me. The stories are unbelievable," Sherlock replied. "Even more so when you watch them play out," said Lestrade, "So… what do you remember?" Sherlock turned to the window again, "I'm starting to remember my child hood, I know who I am, including basic personality, some vague names and faces, but nothing before, and including, John." Sherlock frowned, "Mycroft says you knew us very well," he stated. "Ah… Yes, well. John hasn't been around too long, but I do like to think that I knew you both well." Sherlock turned to him, "Who was he, to me, Mycroft says he lives with me and helps on cases but really. I saw him once since the explosion, awhile ago, and… he was… so emotional." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, "Thing is… ah… you two never said anything but… everyone thought that… he was… you know… more than... just a friend." "I see," Sherlock, said simply, "Thank you for being honest, Greg, I appreciate it." Lestrade rubbed the back of his head, still clearly uncomfortable, even more so now, "I better be off then. It was good seeing you Sherlock." "Thank you for visiting" Sherlock replied, watching the rain begin to splatter on the windowpane. Lestrade turned and walked out, mouthing to himself "Greg?"

John stood leaning against the window, watching lonely rays of sun pierce through the clouds. It had been months since the explosion, now he was left with only an ankle brace and multitude of scars. His physical therapy was complete and Sherlock's would be over soon. Sherlock's burns were much worse, so he would have to wait until about the time his physical therapy was over before coming home. John sighed and wondered if Baker Street would still be Sherlock's home with the amnesia and all. The doctors said he shouldn't see Sherlock, they needed to learn more about his mental state first, he could trigger something. John slammed his fist against the wall "Dammit Sherlock," he groaned. He left his tears come freely now that he was home, and no one was around to see his weakness. Every single night he find himself at the pool, and he nods to Sherlock, he is willing to die, as long as it is together. He remembers Sherlock's fingertips brushing his chest as he ripped off the explosive vest. He hears the gunshot and feels Sherlock fall on top of him before he is engulfed in flames. But sometimes it is different. Sometimes john hears the gunshot but Sherlock doesn't move, and he can't move. The flames consume Sherlock but go no further, and Moriarty appears through the smoke, laughing. "I will burn you, I will burn the heart out of you," then he dissolves into smoke and john is left frozen, watching as Sherlock is consumed by the flames. He wakes up covered in sweat, the same words on his lips, "I love you."

Sherlock walked up the steps that seemed to flash dimly in his memory, and he came to the shiny black door. 221B, home. He slid his key into the lock and walked carefully into his flat. The man from the hospital was sitting in a chair, eyes red, staring at the wall. John. He jumped when Sherlock came in, "Sher- you, I…I didn't know you would be back today." He stammered fidgeting nervously. "I wasn't sure if I should call, my phone was gone of course and without the number… I hope I'm not disturbing you" sherlock replied, noting johns unkempt appearance. "No, no… of course not. Never," John replied, rubbing his eyes, " I was just, um, thinking." "Right," Sherlock said, "well… I guess we have catching up to do?" John nodded, breathing oddly, "That was your normal chair," he said, motioning to his right. "Thanks," Sherlock walked over to the somewhat familiar space and sat down, he noticed there were two cups of tea already on the table. "I thought you didn't know I was coming?" he asked, pointing towards the extra cup. John looked startled, "Oh… I just… It's such a habit…" Sherlock nodded as he saw how devastated the man seemed. John sat down and cleared his throat, "What you did, you know, at the pool, thank you… The doctors said you shielded me from the worst of it." Sherlock just nodded again, unsure of how to reply to the man's cracking voice, or the guilt in his eyes, which roamed over Sherlock's scars. "It wasn't your fault, John" Sherlock finally said, "What happened to me, I mean. I pulled the trigger. And my doctors said I should be able to continue solving cases, without my full memory. They think I have enough back now." John kept staring at the floor for awhile, then looked up. "Good," he managed to say, but Sherlock could hear how tight his throat was. "We can't know John, the memories may come back. It's only a matter of time I'm sure." Sherlock said quietly, stretching the truth. "Of course," John choked out as he got up and quickly walked back to his room,


End file.
